The post office was always hiring.  Turnover rate was probably due to lousy government pay and bennies, but it maybe working for Uncle Sam wasn’t such a bad option.  At least the folders I’d handle there would be inside envelopes and I’d never have to open them.  Maybe an occasional brown-paper-wrapped special would vanish; stealing Playboys wasn’t mail fraud.  The recipient call one of Hef’s employees and get a new one sent.  No damage done. 

            But there’s that routine.  Seven to four, an hour lunch between eleven and noon.  Uniforms.  Routes.  Catalog season.  Why the hell am I investing so much time thinking about being a mailman?  What else am I supposed to do in this car?

            Register this – gas runs over three bucks a gallon and this trip is way the hell too far for my Ford to travel without an oil change and a tire balance.  Red and blue lights flash ahead – I can see their glow around the line of Mack trucks merging into the far left lane. 

            Wright’s offer for reimbursement isn’t reassuring as I’m racking up the frequent flier miles on my credit card.  Should have just flown in the first place. 

            Wouldn’t have to deal with shutdowns and detours that way.  My car’s overheating, my patience is shot, and I’m going to Detroit.  Find me anyone on this planet who wants to go to Motor City that isn’t originally from there.  Can’t be done.

            The motor crawl resumes and I spot the accident.  Holy ****. 

            Two SUVs, a Dodge Caravan, a Buick Skylark, and the back half a Harley.  Can’t tell who hit what first, but...  Damn.

            Highway patrol sent out a couple ambulances, some fire trucks, and an entire squadron of black and whites. 

            If I was a postman, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ****.  But I’m not.  I’m an investigator. 

            Plus I’m hopped up on No-Doz and Red Bulls.

            I ignore the cop with the windmill arm and coast to a stop.  “Keep moving,” he instructs.

            “What happened here, officer?”  I try to read his nametag; it’s one of those Polish sausage names without enough vowels supporting the consonants.

            “Move along!”  He ain’t happy. 

            EMTs roll a body on a gurney.  It’s got to be the biker.  He has no **** head.

            I puke foamy red all over the rainbow of folders in the passenger seat and tag the metal rail of the 18-wheeler ahead of me.  My gray hood crumples like tinfoil. 

            Officer Kielbasa shakes his head and speaks into his shoulder.  He smacks my roof and points me towards another cop at the far end of the lights. 

            I’m willing to let bygones be bygones - it doesn’t look like I did any damage to the semi. 

            I wish I was on my couch again, washing Hawkeye tease Hoolihan.  Reruns had good writing, better than the crap on reality shows these days.  Yeah, if I was Reverend Jim or Archie Bunker, I’d have some great one-liner about why I had a gun in my glove compartment.